


Harebell

by airotcivf



Category: Magi: Adventure of Sinbad (Anime), Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:06:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27528919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airotcivf/pseuds/airotcivf
Summary: Ja’far's been hiding the thorns that are stored inside of him for a long time.He doesn't understand the reason behind the petals that he spits every day because of his misery, and it's increasingly difficult to keep hiding it from Sinbad even if it's killing him. Aside from the rejection of his romantic feelings, Ja’far wouldn't bear to be rejected by his king in all aspects of daily life, too, so he keeps his distance.A distance that Sinbad begins to be tired of.
Relationships: Jafar/Sinbad (Magi)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	1. The blossoming

Leaning over the papers on the table, Ja'far felt the urge to cough. He pressed his lips to the edge of his suit sleeve and, when he finally did it, he found it stained with blood, where the wet petals that had just come out of his mouth were overflowing.

He gritted his teeth. With each passing day, it became more and more difficult to hide the fact that the dark circles under his eyes became more pronounced because it was impossible for him to sleep at night, that sometimes his face was contracted by the pain inside his rib cage and that the quality of his work decreased. He was beginning to run out of excuses.

It’d started a few months ago, Ja’far estimated, during one of the nightly celebrations they used to prepare from time to time. Despite his multiple refusals, Sinbad had managed to convince him to have a drink with him. But  _ how could he have resisted? _ Reprimanding their king was a simple task when his stupidity exceeded the limits of what was safe and sensible, but there were other things… Simpler and more mundane, harder to resist.

He’d taken Ja’far unawares, too. Yes, he might have been used to the sticky ways of his king, but when he put his chunky arm around Ja’far’s shoulders, bending so close that the lines of personal space blurred and disarmed like the drawings made in the sand on the beach and later swallowed by the sea, Ja'far suffered something he liked to refer to as  _ disturbance _ .

Ja’far got angry. He didn’t like how the touch of Sin's olive skin made his hands shake, how sometimes the certain glint of determination in his eyes stirred something in his chest, and how he’d resisted the urge to stretch his fingers and tangle them in the long strands of her king's hair more times than he could admit.

Sinbad didn’t understand the reason behind his displeasure, so his face only got closer, flooding Ja’far's nostrils with the unpleasant smell of alcohol. And how could he...! In what world would he imagine that his right hand, that pale, skinny boy who once owned such a bloodthirstiness that his redemption seemed impossible to anyone who looked at him, now belonged to Sinbad in a way that he could never figure out?

When Ja’far gazed at Sinbad’s features, the thick eyebrows and broad lashes that adorned his face with a limpid, strong and manly beauty, he felt a cramp in his chest. It was a momentary thing, just a twinge under his breastplate. Ja’far had endured much deeper torture, cuts and wounds anyways. Why should something like that have mattered to him?

He grabbed the glass Sinbad offered him, despite how much he despised alcohol, and drank it all at once. It burned as it went down his throat, and Sinbad looked at it with a smile while letting out a long ‘‘huh’’.

Like so many other times, his anger blinded him. Certainly, he loved Sinbad more than anything else — it wasn’t something he denied himself inwardly. Ja’far loved the way he easily influenced others around him, he loved his ability to set his mind to something and carry it through, he loved how he saw a fruitful result where others only perceived trash, and he loved how his voice deepened when he spoke with authority, or when it was so hot that his hair stuck to the nape of his neck, damp with sweat, or also when his fingers curled around a woman's shoulder and his pitch dropped a few octaves, and his gaze became darker, more sensual and…

Ja’far already felt his head spin. That was what bothered him so much! Was it that he  _ craved  _ for Sinbad more than loving him? 

He heard Sinbad laugh and looked at him, unconsciously, like a moth drawn to light.

‘‘Are you okay?’’ Sinbad asked, using that deep, soft voice of his. Ja’far stared at him with narrowed eyes, feeling his hands itch, an idea  — one of those many bad ideas he thought of while drunk, the main reason he didn't drink — tickling the back of his dizzying mind. ‘‘Ja’far?’’

‘‘Sin.’’

Ja’far stretched out his hands, just like a child looking for a parent to hug him would, and wrapped his pale arms around Sinbad's neck. His sleeves rose, revealing white skin wrapped in bright red threads underneath. Before Ja’far knew it, he was on his lap. He felt the vibration of Sinbad’s laughter against his temple.

"You're a terrible drinker."

Ja’far moved off, but his arms stayed around Sinbad.

"How are you able to tell I'm drunk, huh?" He asked haughtily.

"Well, a sober Ja’far would never sit on my lap."

"Well, I'm not," he drawled, his speech slurred. ‘‘And, in my defense, you’re a terrible king.’’

Sinbad smiled again and stretched out his hand, tossing one of Ja’far's unruly strands of hair behind his ear. Then it got higher, seeming to want to remove Ja’far's keffiyeh, but stopped on the spot. Of course, Sinbad knew that the most precious thing to him was that uniform.  _ Of course _ .

Something twisted inside of him again.

"I thought drunks were more honest."

_ Honest _ . A Ja’far with no alcohol in his system would have laughed at the irony of his request—if Sinbad knew what was in his heart, honesty would be the last thing he would be suggesting. But Ja’far did have alcohol in his system, and, just as his king said, drunks are more honest.

Ja’far leaned a little closer. He wasn’t seeing properly. Sinbad's tanned skin, beautiful as it was, was bathed in the amber lighting of the room, and he nearly fell to the side if it weren't for Sinbad's arm around him in a firm, strong grip. Ja’far shuddered and put his lips to the older man's jaw, pressing gently.

Sinbad's shoulders sagged slightly, his entire body relaxing against the furniture he was sitting on. He let out a shaky chuckle that ignited something in Ja’far that he'd never felt before.

"Ah… don't do that. I know you're drunk, and I never thought you'd be the smoochy type, but that feels..."

He didn't let him finish. Ja'far's lungs tickled. The desire grew, the craving grew, and he didn't stop to think that Sinbad only allowed him to do this because he trusted him, because he thought he was just playing around, because he didn't suspect the true intentions behind that touch.

Ja’far moved his mouth to the base of Sinbad's ear and pressed his tongue almost gently. He loved him. He loved him so bad. He  _ wanted  _ him so bad...

"Ja'far," Sinbad sighed, pushing him away without much force. "You shouldn’t do that. At least, not with me. I don't understand why you still reject the women I give you. If you want, I can make…"

Ja’far kissed him.

He didn't really think about it. Sinbad's lips as he spoke, while using that tone of concern for him, were suddenly really tempting. And Ja’far hadn't realized how much he thought about them, about touching them, until that moment.

Sinbad's arm froze.

Ja’far knew that his ruler could be an excellent liar if he wanted to. He could manipulate to his advantage, because he was a man who had as many glories as shadows —and they were very, very dark— so, when Sinbad’s fingers petrified on his arm, even as he tried to carefully measure his expression, Ja'far knew.

Sinbad gently pulled him away and then looked at him.

Ja’far was sure his face must have hinted at something, because Sinbad seemed to understand, suddenly, that Ja’far wasn’t a smoochy drunk. Not at all. And while that strong, independent and perfect liar king could make a massacre on behalf of his nation without his expression altering in the least, his face was decomposed as he dealt with the inevitable revelation that his right hand loved him, just in the way Sinbad considered women and men love each other.

The twinge above Ja’far’s chest increased.

And something  _ blossomed  _ inside him.

There was intense, ravenous and furious love, a desire so strong it spoke of sacrifice in Ja’far’s eyes. There was compassion and pity in Sinbad's eyes.

Ja’far coughed and ran off.

He almost fell flat on his face as he lost his balance while going to his room. He didn’t listen to anything that Sinbad said. Anxiety about working again consumed him despite his clear drunkenness. However, when he arrived and his hands were on all the paperwork he had to go through, finally, he coughed again. And one more time. And when he looked down, he found the petals that had come out of his mouth and landed on the papers’ letters, which were blurred.

He fell unconscious, spitting flowers and swallowing misery, his lungs and heart pierced by the thorns of a disease that was beginning to kill him from within.


	2. My friend

If there was one thing that Ja'far hated more fully than Sinbad doing stupid things, more than alcohol and more than someone insulting or assaulting their king, that was not being able to work.

That day in his chambers, shaky, confused, and drunk, Ja'far couldn't figure out a logical reason why his lungs suddenly began to act the way they did. He touched his throat, aching and itchy, and coughed again—bits of purple flowers fell with each contraction.

He had the urge to cry. Amidst scattered scrolls and his robe in a mess, Ja'far clenched his hands until his knuckles turned white.

He heard Sinbad's footsteps behind the door. Ja'far froze, and then the movement to the other side stopped. There was a moment of silence before the man backed away again, his slippers rhythmically echoing against the ground.

Ja’far was left alone.

The first months hadn't been so bad. The occasional cough that took him by surprise and forced him to quickly hide the petals in the hollows of his sleeves, the slight pang in his left lung and that was it. Ja'far carried on with his work, at a speed and efficiency that would be asphyxiating to anyone but him, and Ja'far's daily life wasn’t much different than before.

Except for  _ that one  _ little detail.

It was clearly unavoidable not to meet Sinbad. During the mornings, when Sinbad would go to attend his diplomatic affairs and run into Ja'far in the corridors, the latter would bow ceremonially, as he would’ve done before, and mutter a "Good morning, Your Highness." Sinbad would detain the look in him for just a few seconds, but paying him enough attention to make Ja’far realize he had him in his sights. Ja’far would then straighten up and walk away, with steps that purposely avoided being hasty in order not to raise any suspicions. He was sure Sinbad noticed.

Careful, distant and cold. Professional. Ja’far repeated those to himself, a reminder.  _ The best thing is to stay away from him _ , he told himself.

And then the coughing seemed to increase with a speed that took his breath away.

After those first few months, Ja’far had been careless. He admitted it. He drowned in work, rarely allowing himself much rest, and always had his nose stuck in a scroll or a meeting. That was easy. It distracted him from thinking about Sinbad, who seemed as reluctant to engage even in a casual conversation as Ja’far was. It distracted him from thinking about his rejection, about his heavy eyes.

"Your Highness," he’d said one of those many mornings when they only existed for each other at work, "you have a meeting with the Council in a few minutes."

Upon entering the room, Ja’far must’ve noticed that the only one there was Sinbad. He should’ve paid more attention.

He was about to leave the room when Sinbad, still staring at the papers in front of him, spoke. "Ja'far."

The youngest shuddered. It’d been a long time since he’d addressed him directly.

He turned around carefully, his eyes fixed on the tip of his slippers peeking out from under his robe. "Yes, Your Highness?"

"Come here."

Ah… Ja’far wanted to laugh so bad. It was so funny. He would do whatever Sinbad asked, he noticed as he approached him, and not because it was his king's orders. Definitely not because of that.

Sinbad hadn’t touched him again, but when Ja'far walked around the table and came to his side, his ruler brushed the delicate skin of his wrist with the pads of his fingers, indecisive, and then circled it with a care that didn’t had before. The moment Ja’far looked into his eyes, those piercing, golden eyes that had once shone from sharing a joke with him, and now melted into liquid gold because of him. Because of Ja’far.

Sinbad didn't seem angry—he seemed  _ pleading. _ Ja’far looked at him in surprise. Why was he so upset?

He didn't understand the reason, either, why his heart had to flutter like that at Sinbad's contact. Ja’far had ruined everything. And now he had an unbearable urge to cry because, as much as he loved his king, he knew that, somehow, love destroys, and Ja'far was the last person who would lay a finger on Sinbad with the intention of hurting him. Ever. 

"What is it, Your Highness?"

Although his voice was stoic, his hands trembled against Sinbad's fingers.

"Why won’t you do it?" Sinbad asked, apparently searching for something on Ja’far's face. A signal. Anything. Of course, Ja’far was unaware that several things were happening behind his calm expression.

Ja’far looked at him, confused.

"Do what?"

"Call me Sin." Sinbad raised Ja’far’s hand and stared at it. It was pale, a piece of immaculate skin despite all the blood that had run around it. He gently pressed his thumb into the hollow curve of the palm, looking for a scar. Ja’far flinched and closed his eyes. "You stopped it. It's like we're not friends anymore."

"We are not," Ja’far replied, his voice breaking on the last syllable.

But they were. Sinbad was one of his most important, longest-lasting and deepest friendships. And Ja’far felt adoration for him, and for the entire nation he’d raised. But what his heart professed was no longer friendly feelings.

Ja’far recognized the familiar itch at the base of his throat. He tried to get out of Sinbad's grasp —how was he going to explain that he was coughing up flowers?—, but he wouldn't allow it. Ja’far wanted to yell at him, and held back. He couldn't let Sinbad see it. Why didn't he release him?

"What do you mean we're not friends?"

He had to say something to him to make him stop grabbing him. Quickly.

"Well, I mean that. Do you think things were going to be the same as before?" Ja’far replied. Lies. He himself was the one who wished things were like before. He felt his lungs fill up again. "That, after kissing and you being petrified, you could touch me without it having a different meaning? Did you think so?"

He was speaking to him in the same voice that he used to scold him when he did something extremely stupid, only this time Sinbad wasn't laughing, or justifying his actions with a lazy wave of the hand that dismissed the matter. Because Sinbad couldn’t dismiss this matter. Not  _ this  _ one.

"But…"

Ja’far was fighting the urge to cough, swallowing hard. He had to do something, for God's sake.

"What do you want me to say so that you understand, Sin?" Ja’far's voice shook.

What could he say to gross out Sinbad forever? To keep him away from him by his own free will, so that only thinking about their friendship would make him feel ill? Ja’far laughed, but not because he found something funny. "I think I have it, Sin. I'm in love with you. I have fallen in love with you, with your golden eyes, with your long hair and your hands’ roughness, with the youth in your face and the firmness of your conviction, I’ve fallen in love with the way you influence all those who surround you and your intense love for Sindria. I am in love with Sinbad, the sailor and the king, but most of all, I’m in love with Sinbad, my friend.

Sinbad's hand around his wrist dropped limp.

''Yeah'' he thought, ''of course he would let me go. It was clear he would let me go.'' 

Ja’far suddenly felt very small. Tiny. And lost, like when bandages encircled his limbs and he plunged into murder, blood, and guts. Like when there wasn't really a purpose that made him get up in the morning.

His eyes burned, and, free from Sinbad's grasp, he left the room just as tears and flowers spilled from his face, feeling miserable and with a huge hollow that started from his throat and cut to where his ribs ended.

He left, leaving a trail of harebells behind him, trusting that the wind blowing in from the hallway windows would carry them away, unaware that someone had seen him, the piercing under his lip catching the reflection of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like my first fic ever, and although this isn't exactly the way I would've wanted it to turn out, I'm pretty much having a lot of fun doing it.  
> The protagonist is clearly Ja'far, my sweet little cinnamon roll, and, even if I wanted to show his way of seeing things and only his, some Sinbad's insights work for the angst lmao.  
> English is not my main language so this might result a little sloppy, I'm sorry:(


End file.
